Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire

by Christian Humberg

  Rooth sat back in his chair, folding his hands in front of his chest. “Enlighten me,” he said mockingly.

  “Because they’re animals!” Klarn shouted. “These jeghpu’wI’ don’t deserve our trust. They don’t know honor, nor do they know anything about victory. Do we really want to go down in history as the ship that tolerated an inferior being on its bridge? Do you really want to live with that disgrace, son of K’mpath?”

  Rooth sighed again. He sympathized with Klarn, which was the worst part in all of this. This was by no means the first time that he’d heard stories such as this one. The gray-haired Rooth was more than sixty years old, and he had been aboard the Bortas longer than any other member of her crew. He had already served under Chancellor Gowron, before and during the war. In his youth he would also have fought tooth and nail—with a bat’leth if necessary—to make sure that both the ship’s reputation and his own weren’t tainted by the presence of an inferior being in the crew.

  But over the years, Rooth had modified his views. Time had honed his eye for essential facts. Since he had personally met the great Emperor Kahless, clone of the original historical figure, Rooth had shed the extremely martial aspects of his personality. He had turned to the lore and wisdom of Kahless the Unforgettable. Now, more than two decades after this fateful encounter, Rooth had found his inner self. His mind was alert, his body fortified by experience and reason.

  “Now we’re getting to the bottom of this,” he said, looking at Klarn. “This isn’t about sabotage, and not about things that Bekk Raspin has allegedly done. This is about you and your so-called disgrace.”

  The lieutenant straightened himself, squaring his shoulders. But his expression showed anything but respect. “My console,” he snarled, and his bushy eyebrows almost met above his nose, “has been damaged. And this… this bekk was the only one who could have touched it unnoticed.”

  He had all but spat out the rank. Bekks were the lowest ranking members in the Defense Force. Almost no one of the officer class looked upon them favorably; and certainly not if a bekk was also jeghpu’wI’.

  “Material fatigue, Lieutenant,” Rooth said, rising behind his desk in an attempt to end this conversation sooner. “Everything will break eventually. Perhaps you should go and see a technician rather than security.”

  “Is that your answer?” Klarn exploded. “You…”

  Rooth raised his hand, gesturing toward the door. “Dismissed, Lieutenant,” he said quietly, but firmly.

  Klarn blinked incredulously. Finally, he regained control over himself. His fists were still clenched.

  “This isn’t over yet,” he said with a snarl.

  The security chief nodded, unfazed. “I will let Chief Engineer Nuk know that you’re on your way to see him.” He stepped toward the door that opened promptly. The plain, dimly lit corridor came into sight. “Now.”

  Another few seconds passed before Klarn finally tore himself away. Silently and visibly dissatisfied he stomped out of the room. Rooth watched him until he disappeared around a corner toward the engine room.

  Back at his desk, Rooth touched a button, opening an internal channel. “Rooth to engine room.”

  “Nuk,” was his old friend’s short and prompt reply.

  “You’re getting a visitor, old man,” Rooth said. “A furious visitor, no less.”

  “I can’t wait,” the chief engineer replied, and he sounded almost cheerful. Nuk was of the House of Kruge, a family famous for building ships. The crew had deemed him eccentric, and he got on far better with his engines than he did with living beings. He was happiest when he could spend his time with technology. Rooth, as his longstanding crewmate, thought that those traits made Nuk the perfect engineer. “He can take it out on the stubborn propulsion system.”

  Rooth grinned. “Is it still causing problems?”

  “Not for much longer,” Nuk answered with a suggestive tone in his voice, before signing off.

  Short and sweet as always. Rooth’s grin broadened. Silently, the security chief looked at his monitor.

  “Computer, where is Commander L’emka?”

  Schematics of the I.K.S. Bortas appeared on the small monitor. A pulsating red circle showed the first officer’s location. She was in her quarters, just like Rooth had hoped.

  A few minutes later the old warrior stood in front of the young officer’s door. He had to ring twice before she opened.

  As soon as the door opened, she snapped, “nuqneH?” Her apparel was scanty and soaked in sweat. The scents of candle wax and incense wafted around the air in her small dimly lit cabin.

  The corners of Rooth’s mouth twitched when he noticed her body odor. L’emka’s sweat smelled like harvested grain on the farm worlds where she came from. He smelled vastness and strength… and more. “Am I interrupting anything?” the old warrior asked roguishly.

  L’emka brushed her long dark hair back with one hand. “Combat training. Once again, Commander, what do you want?”

  “Klarn,” said Rooth.

  L’emka lowered her hand first, followed by her head. A low groan escaped from her throat. “Not again…”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She stepped aside, inviting him into her quarters. Rooth entered the room. He had never been in the first officer’s cabin before—at least not since L’emka had been living there—and he was surprised to see what she had done with it. The walls of the small, windowless room had been decorated with sharp blades. A bat’leth was mounted on one wall; the blade of a tjtiq reflected the flickering candlelight from another. He saw an artistic handmade tapestry telling stories of daily farming routine and harvesting cycles in many illustrations. A narrow cot with a shoulder-high privacy shield was on the back wall next to the door that led to the sanitary area. Rooth didn’t see a replicator; L’emka usually ate with her subordinates in the mess.

  “What’s he done this time?”

  Rooth shook his head. “Nothing. He just… ponders too much for my liking. And that leads to rather silly ideas.” He told her about the communication officer’s visit.

  “Xenophobia on a Klingon bridge.” L’emka snorted amused but there was no joy in her eyes. “Now there’s a surprise.”

  “Klarn has got too much time on his hands,” Rooth said. “Just like the rest of us. That sometimes allows unpleasantries to surface that the crew would be less susceptible to under different circumstances. When are we finally meeting up with the Prometheus?”

  “In three days,” the young commander replied. “The flight doesn’t get any shorter just because people are constantly asking about it.”

  “See?” Rooth growled, nodding. “We’re all bored.”

  “Most of all we have a task to fulfill!” L’emka pointed out. She sat down on the floor cross-legged, starting to wipe clean the blood-stained d’k tahg that was laying there. Yet again the security chief wondered what exactly she had been up to when he interrupted her. “Martok wants us—us of all people—to shed a light upon Tika IV-B’s fate. Martok himself! The crew would be well advised to prepare for this mission rather than wasting time with useless trifles.”

  “The crew is not used to being important,” Rooth replied dryly. Affectionately, he stroked the outer cabin wall. “This ship… it’s seen some great times. During the civil war it was even the late Chancellor Gowron’s flagship before almost being destroyed during the attack on Cardassia Prime. And today?” This time, he was the one who snorted. “Today, we have a callow youth, the idiot son of a noble family on our bridge. Hero of the Ning’tao, my ass. Kromm wasn’t even aboard when that ship achieved its heroic feat.”

  “Kromm is a high-born drunkard,” L’emka said derisively. “He was well infused with bloodwine when he spoke to Martok yesterday.”

  Rooth turned around, facing her. “He’s a Klingon!” he stated, raising his voice. “And he’s young. Of course he’s drinking. Of course he’s loudmouthed and hotheaded. That’s not the problem, Commander.”

  “Then
what is?” She looked up at him, fury in her eyes. L’emka had worked her way up the ranks from being a lowly bekk, receiving a battlefield commission in the waning days of the Dominion War. The young farmer’s daughter was grounded, purposeful, and thorough. No wonder that she thought that Captain Kromm, who had to be the most dubious command partner they could have lumbered her with, was weighing her formerly promising career down—though her low-born status probably had something to do with her being assigned to such an idiot. With every sentence, her voice raised a bit more. “Where is the problem, Security Chief? Mh? Where does the Bortas fall short if not with her commander? What is it that drives idiots such as Klarn and our ‘Captain Bloodwine’?”

  The old warrior nodded appreciatively. She had never spoken this openly to him. L’emka’s patience had obviously worn very thin. Rooth wondered what would happen if it ran out.

  “The problem is the past eight turns,” he answered quietly. “Command gave Kromm this ship back then to get rid of him. They wanted to give him a post befitting his social standing, and one that wouldn’t pose a disgrace for his House. But the generals know Kromm all too well. They consider him to be just as unfit as you do, Commander.”

  L’emka wanted to protest but Rooth waved his hand dismissively. They both knew that he was right. Why lie?

  “That’s the reason why they don’t assign the Bortas any important missions,” he continued. “They parked Kromm on this ship on the edge of their field of vision, along with this ship. We’ve been out of the loop for eight turns, Commander. That’s the problem. We’ve been watching for far too long while others accumulated glory. The empire doesn’t expect anything from us. So we’re not used to making a difference anymore, to get involved. We have weakened, and we’re idle.” And instead of finding worthy opponents, we’re getting agitated over a harmless Rantal.

  The first officer remained silent, and that told Rooth more than a thousand confirmations. L’emka put the now gleaming d’k tahg aside. Leaning forward, she blew out one of the three candles that were burning in front of her in copper bowls, spreading their scent throughout the room.

  “We’ve been given a chance,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet and a little defiant. “This joint mission with the Federation is our opportunity to prove ourselves. We can show everyone that the Bortas still has life in her yet. This ship can be more than its commander who’s resting on other people’s laurels.” Her hand reached for the d’k tahg. “We must and we will prove that to our people, Rooth. With or without Kromm.”

  The old warrior grinned. “With,” he said calmly. “For now, let us say, ‘with,’ Commander. Agreed?”

  Her hand slid back to her lap. For now, L’emka and he were in agreement. “I’ll talk to Klarn,” she promised. “Again.”

  He nodded gratefully. “And I with Nuk. We’ll see if the old fool isn’t able to produce a bit more steam for his turbine if I ask nicely.”

  “Steam? Turbine?” Laughing, L’emka rose from the floor and escorted her visitor to the door. “Commander Rooth, you really have been out of the loop for too long. Didn’t you know that the Defense Force has upgraded their ships with warp engines?”

  Rooth raised his bushy eyebrows. “All this newfangled nonsense!” he jokingly complained. “Whatever next, mh? Women on the bridge?”

  Rooth could still feel the friendly thump that she landed on him for this remark after he had returned to his security office. Satisfied, he grinned.

  15

  NOVEMBER 6, 2385

  I.K.S. Bortas

  The U.S.S. Aventine was a Vesta-class starship and probably the most modern one in Starfleet. Her quantum slipstream drive and the Mark XII phaser banks aroused Captain Kromm’s envy, but he instantly took a dislike to the only passenger aboard.

  “Ambassador, Captain,” Kromm greeted Alexander Rozhenko and Captain Ezri Dax just as soon as they had materialized in the I.K.S. Bortas’s transporter room. “Welcome aboard.”

  Rozhenko wore dark, simple clothes. His black hooded coat covered the dark overall with the broad belt. His face was inscrutable when he nodded at Kromm, and he seemed almost indifferent.

  The woman by his side was one and a half heads shorter than him, and she wore the uniform of a Starfleet captain. “Thank you for seeing us right away, Captain,” she said. “The Federation insisted that you and the ambassador embark on your journey immediately.”

  “The Federation is not alone,” said Kromm. He made two steps toward the transporter platform, beckoning Rozhenko to come down. “The High Council is also very interested in hunting down the wretched villains of Tika IV-B. The Renao will curse the day when they raised their hand against the Klingon Empire… that much I can guarantee.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t…” Dax started.

  But Rozhenko was faster. “Maybe it wasn’t the Renao,” the ambassador said calmly but firmly. “One of the mission objectives is to establish their guilt or innocence. Don’t forget that, Captain Kromm. So far the evidence is very ambiguous. There are many questions around, but precious little certainty.”

  Dax nodded. “The Federation wants all hints and theories looked into with an open mind. I’m sure that Captain Adams agrees with that notion.”

  “Evidence.” Looking at Dax, Kromm waved his hand dismissively. “You’re a Trill, Captain. You belong to a species where mortal host beings enter into lifelong symbioses with seemingly immortal intelligence forms, which are handed on to another mortal host once the previous one perishes. Bearing that in mind, you probably have lived through several fascinating lives so far. Why do you of all people approach me with a ridiculously dull-witted, deeply human presumption of innocence? The Renao confessed!”

  “One Renao,” she reminded him. Her light blue eyes held his gaze. Her tone of voice was courteous, but reserved and firm. “And even that is only an assumption. And may I add that ‘innocent until proven otherwise’ is not just inherently human, Captain Kromm, but also universally ethical.”

  Kromm was amazed. The looks of the small Trill with her shoulder-length black hair and dainty figure didn’t appeal to him. But apparently, that unspectacular appearance concealed a very forceful temper. No wonder that she had been at loggerheads earlier this year with the corrupt Federation government preceding Kellessar zh’Tarash. Dax clearly had honor in her bones!

  “We’re looking for answers, not prejudgments.” Rozhenko stepped off the platform to stand next to Kromm. His gaze expressed gratitude when he faced Captain Dax one last time. “Safe travels, Captain. And please let your first officer know that the next round of Fizzbin will be mine to win!”

  The young woman smiled cordially. “I’m sure he won’t like to hear that, Ambassador. Sam Bowers is capable of many things, but not of losing. Not even in a game of cards.”

  “All the more reason.” Rozhenko nodded. “Take care.”

  “Godspeed, Ambassador,” Dax said. “Captain.”

  “Qapla’!” replied Kromm, squaring his shoulders while watching the Trill woman disappear in the transporter’s red swirl. One second later she was gone, back on her own ship that had rendezvoused with the Bortas.

  Kromm turned to his guest, sizing him up briefly. Rozhenko seemed small to him. The dark clothing wasn’t able to conceal the slender shoulders. His beardless face’s features were too soft for Kromm’s liking… almost effeminate.

  “As I said, Ambassador, welcome aboard the Bortas. We will resume course to the Lembatta Cluster immediately.” Kromm pointed to a bekk with a full beard, who stood silently behind the transporter console. “Should Brukk show you to your quarters? Or would you like to accompany me to the bridge and meet my staff?”

  The ambassador shook his head. “Thank you, Captain, but I’m familiar with the Vor’cha-class, and I can find my way around the ship with ease—I will go to my cabin to study some more reports before we meet up with the Prometheus. Unless—do you play Fizzbin, by any chance?”

  “Fizzbin?” Kromm laughed, half incredulously,
half appalled. “No. A child’s game is unworthy of a warrior.”

  “To each their own,” Rozhenko replied with an indulgent smile that Kromm desperately wanted to punch. “Open your mind, Captain. Otherwise, you might miss out on something.” With these words he nodded respectfully, turned, and left the transporter room.

  16

  NOVEMBER 7, 2385

  U.S.S. Prometheus, Lembatta Prime

  “Standard orbit, Lieutenant ak Namur.”

  “Aye, Captain, standard orbit.”

  From his place in the command chair on the Prometheus bridge, Richard Adams watched Lieutenant ak Namur entering commands into the conn in front of him. On the main screen the red glowing spheres of the Lembatta Cluster changed their positions, and the yellow-green globe in the center of the display grew consistently, before it transformed into a concave horizon on the left side of the ship.

  The flight from one end of the Federation to the other hadn’t even taken a day with the Prometheus’s slipstream drive. Once they arrived at the outer reaches of the Lembatta Cluster, the stellar density forced them to slow down to conventional warp. A flight at higher speed would have been too risky. So they reached Lembatta Prime, one of the Federation’s worlds in the outer regions of the cluster, around lunchtime on the third day after their departure from Deep Space 9. If they had been limited to traditional warp drive for the entire journey, it would have taken weeks to get there.

  Below, the planet’s surface slowly slid past. Adams sat up straight in his chair. He looked left toward his communications officer. “Mr. Winter, announce our arrival to flight control.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  While waiting for the officer to complete the formalities required by protocol for arriving starships in orbit around a Federation planet, the captain directed his attention back to the world that filled one half of the bridge’s main screen. Just before their arrival in the system he had read up about Lembatta Prime in his ready room. The planet was smaller than Earth, but due to its mass it had almost the same gravity. It orbited its sun—a red giant within the cluster—just within the habitable zone, but the heat on its surface was unpleasant. Vast areas on this world consisted of deserts, which explained the planet’s yellow color. The green parts were oceans, so colored by oxygen-producing algae. These algae were also the world’s most valuable export as they contained enzymes that were incredibly useful for medical research.